


Reclaiming a Dragon's Treasure

by Scrawlers



Series: Risen Chrom AU [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Contains Chrom/FeMU as a previously established relationship, Drama, Gen, Takes place in the original bad future timeline but is still a canon divergence/AU, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8351356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrawlers/pseuds/Scrawlers
Summary: Grima took Robin’s body, and with it, razed the world. Even so, every dragon likes to have its hoard, and in that, having just one member of the Ylissean royal family could never quite be enough . . .





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written ages ago in response to the fact that one of the characters in the SMT/FE crossover game looked like Chrom if Chrom was a Risen. This is a dark fic, and contains a bit of violence/some non-consensual touching (though nothing overtly explicit), so be aware of that going in.
> 
> Also, as mentioned in the tags, this was written assuming that Chrom and (female) Robin married and had children in the original bad future, and so that is brought up/mentioned multiple times. However, given the circumstances, it's safe to say that this is far from a romance fic.

Chrom’s breath came in a short little gasps. His heart was beating frantically in his chest in quick flutters like the wings of a baby pegasus, and his head felt light. Despite the dim lighting in the room, where the only light at all came from small candles that cast greater shadows than they did glows, somehow, everything looked brighter to him, each detail vivid, as if his mind was working in overdrive to analyze the situation and give him a way out— _any_ way out.

But there wasn’t one, at least, not that he could see. The room was large and circular, with smooth stone walls that were mottled here or there with torch brackets or spell runes that he didn’t understand. The ceiling stretched high enough above him so that he couldn’t see it, dark as the shadows were, though there were little windows along the tip top that he could just barely make out due to the moonlight shining through them. Chrom was in the center of the room, chained to an armless chair which was situated in the middle of a room-sized magical glyph.  Chrom wasn’t sure what this glyph was for, either—he’d never been able to pay enough attention in Miriel’s lectures, particularly since magic wasn’t something he’d ever utilized himself—but even though the words along the circular lines were written in a spidery looking language that he couldn’t understand, he was sure the glyph wasn’t anything for his benefit. All the same, it wasn’t as if he could escape; there had been no expense spared when it came to confining him there, with chains wrapped around each of his legs to bind them to the legs of the chair, and wrapped enough times around his arms and torso so that he could barely see his own tunic top when he looked down. Chains even bound his wrists individually, cutting into his skin so tightly his hands felt numb, and when he looked back he could see a sword—not Falchion, no, for Grima wouldn’t have been able to touch that without screaming, but another—lying just out of his reach. If he could free his hands, perhaps he could grab it . . . but he couldn’t, and he couldn’t help but think that it was there specifically to taunt him, to make him feel worse about the situation he’d awoken to find himself in.

Joke was on the Fell Dragon, Chrom thought. So long as he was alive, he wouldn’t give up hope, even as a combination of adrenaline and the chains around his chest made breathing a difficult chore.

A door behind him opened, the metal hinges groaning as they moved. Chrom tried to turn his head to look over his shoulder, but the door was just out of his line of sight, and the footsteps—light across the stone, barely loud enough to be heard over the sound of the door closing and the swish of a cloak—drew his attention to the other side. As always when he saw her nowadays, Chrom felt his breath catch in his throat as she passed him, and felt something akin to ice slide down his chest when her dark eyes flickered over to meet his.

_Robin._

“Oh, I was hoping you’d be awake,” she said, and it was her voice that reminded him that, no, she wasn’t Robin—not _his_ Robin, anyway, not anymore. She was _Grima_ now, her voice carrying a strange undercurrent he could never quite ignore, something akin to a purr and a snarl all wrapped into one, each word dripping with condescension every time she spoke to him. “Preparation can be so tedious.  It‘s always preferable to have company.”

“Preparation for what, exactly?” Chrom asked. He didn’t bother to adopt the faux affable tone she had, even when her lips curled into a little smirk that, in all honesty, was as cold as her eyes.

“You haven’t figured it out yet? How sad. I know you were never the brightest, but I thought even _you_ could have put the pieces together . . .” She turned and strode toward one of the tables far across from him, the one littered with open books, scraps of paper, broken quills and vials of liquid that Chrom could only guess the purpose of. Her hair was longer now, Chrom noted, than the last time he’d seen her. It was longer than she’d ever kept it before, when she was still his wife and they were still in love. It fell down her back, long strands of flowing silvery white held back by a simple black band, braids drawn up in a crown around her head. It was beautiful, he would admit. But still, it wasn’t _Robin_.

“What can I say? Figuring out the mind of a Fell Dragon was never high on my list of priorities.” Chrom kept his voice casual as he tugged on the chains that held his wrists. If he could get his wrists free, then perhaps he could tug his arms through the chains that bound the rest of him. Maybe he could get free . . .

“No, I suppose not. Well, that suits me just fine, really. Wars are easier to win when the enemy army has a rubbish excuse for a tactician at its helm.” She paused, and Chrom looked up in time to see her flick her wrist in his direction, her face bearing an expression that was almost bored. He had a half second to process what that meant before a yelp that was more of a scream was torn from his throat, pain ricocheting through his body from the electricity that sparked around the chains binding him.

“You really ought to behave yourself,” she said, and Chrom panted as the pain subsided, though his muscles jerked involuntarily against the chains. “Not that you have any chance of getting free, of course, but it’s still rather distracting to see you try. Just sit still and be good. Preparations will be ready soon enough.”

“Preparations for _what_?” Chrom ground out. Once again she smiled that sickly smirk, but then she turned so that her back was to him as she pulled one of the books closer to her.

“Tell me, love: When you awoke, did anything strike you as strange about the situation you found yourself in? Anything at all?”

“You mean aside from the fact that I was chained to a chair in the lair of my enemy?” Chrom asked dryly. She laughed, low and full of dark amusement, and Chrom gritted his teeth at the sound.

“Well, yes and no . . .”  She turned partially to face him, her leer lighting her face. “You’re _alive_ , Exalted one. You are here, in my ‘lair’ as you have so termed it, and you certainly are bound, but you are still _alive._ Now, tell me: Didn't that didn’t ring a bit strange in that thick head of yours?”

“I’ve learned not to sit and count my blessings,” Chrom said, but in truth, though the fact had occurred to him, it _had_ seemed like a blessing before. But Robin’s—no, _Grima’s_ eyes were practically leering at him now, an almost hungry look burning in them that made the adrenaline already coursing through his body pick up at a higher kip. He was alive, yes. But that brought up a very terrifying question: _why_?

“What a sweet thought. So innocent and selfless. And rich, really, coming from one with as much prestige as yourself.” She turned back to the table, grabbed a vial and considered it for a moment, before she tipped some of its contents into a small mortar. “How sweet it is to imagine the little privileged, Exalted boy not gloating over his many blessings, oh no, but instead spending his days simply accepting them with nary a thought, carrying on with his life and dragging those around him into it, leaving gilded devastation in his wake.”

“As nice as your attempt at poetry is, is there a point to it?” Chrom asked.

Grima leaned over to read one of the open books near her again. “In time.  Answer me this, Chrom: do you know where Risen come from?”

Memories of Lissa asking a similar question in regards to babies flashed through Chrom’s mind, and he made a face. “It isn’t a thought I’ve cared to entertain, to be honest,” he said, and she laughed, as though his discomfort at Risen mating rituals was plain to her despite the fact that he hadn’t voiced the thought.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be. An examination of my vessel’s memories tell me that you always were more of an _attack first, ask questions later_ sort of man.” The mention of her _vessel_ caused heat to flash through Chrom, something akin to rage and heartache squeezing in his chest, but he said nothing as she continued. “Allow me to enlighten you, then. Risen are borne of a ritual cast upon the earth—specifically above graves, freshly dug or otherwise. Of course, fresh graves make the ritual easier; it’s easier to resurrect a body that hasn’t quite yet had the time to decompose than it is something rotted and crumbling. Rotted and crumbling corpses _can_ be used for Risen, but it takes so much more _work_. Really, that’s how we ended up with so many of the Entombed. Have you seen the Entombed? They’re so _worthless._ Half of them want nothing more than a vegetable to snack on. Vegetables! As if my forces have any room for _vegetarian_ zombies that want nothing to do with human prey.” Grima made a _tsk_ sound with her tongue and shook her head. “It’s despicable, really.  Embarrassing, even.”

“They should be ashamed,” Chrom said. “Disowned and disinherited.”

Grima looked over at him, and her lips tilted upward on one side, a mockery of Robin’s old grin. “A sense of humor even given your situation. You know, there are times when I can see why my vessel adored you so much.”  Something about his feelings on the matter must have shown on his face, for Grima’s smirk turned a little bit brighter before she turned back to whatever she was doing at the table. “As I was saying, fresh corpses make the Risen summoning ritual easier, but either way, whether you want Risen or Entombed, corpses are typically the number one ingredient.”

“Fascinating,” Chrom said.  

Grima picked up another vial and tipped the contents into her mortar before she reached for pestle and began grinding the contents into a powder. “Isn’t it? Lately, though . . . lately I’ve been wondering if perhaps there isn’t another way. A _better_ way, at least in some circumstances. Because you see, even with fresh corpses, Risen are still _Risen._ The ritual reanimates the corpse and bends its will to mine, but it also strips the corpse of all individuality. Personality, of course, and intellect, but even down to basic appearance.  The fault is mine, I know.  My . . . essence, if you will, my spirit, my _soul_ —it’s too powerful. In making them mine I consume them utterly.  I burn away their outer features, strip them down to charred flesh and brittle bone. It’s useful, of course, for keeping them functioning even after the first few lethal blows, but . . . it isn’t always desirable. For the majority of the army, perhaps, but in certain cases . . . no, it certain cases it simply won’t do.” She heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Having so much power has its uses, but in some cases it truly does feel like a curse.”

“What with being a _Fell_ Dragon and all, that feeling must be new for you,” Chrom said.

The melodramatic slump in her shoulders perked up again, and when she turned back to him, mortar and pestle in hand, it was with a smile. “Indeed. But I wonder, dear one: Have you put the pieces together yet? Have you figured out why I had you brought here, why I’ve kept you alive?”

She was staring at him, slowly grinding the contents of her mortar, and he stared back. Her eyes were so dark, and they always had been, even when she’d first met his eyes in that brigand-ravaged village, staring up at him with an expression that was blank with fresh grief, but no less full of life. Now, though, it was different. Her eyes had _been_ different since the day he’d lost her, dark and empty, like the cavernous maw of some great beast whose hunger wouldn’t ever be quelled. Chrom could see that hunger now, staring at him, accompanying the little smirk on her lips that seemed to tell of the teeth just beyond, and suddenly it occurred to him that the ravenous appetite he always saw in the eyes of the Fell Dragon wasn’t something he was imagining, something he saw there to make up for the absence of the one he loved, but was instead very, very real.

She laughed, loud and triumphant.

“ _There_ it is,” she said, and she set her mortar and pestle on the table behind her before she slowly started to make her way over to him. “There is that expression I _love_ to see, and it is, perhaps, one of my _favorites._ For yes, there is joy in seeing the moment when _life_ leaves one’s eyes, as well as the joy in seeing _hope_ abandon them in the same way. But both of those somehow pale in comparison to _this_ one, this realization of something truly, truly _awful_.”

“You can’t be serious,” Chrom said, and she bared her teeth in a grin as she used one finger to tilt his chin up so that he stared into her eyes.

“Oh, I am,” she said. “On all counts, in case you were wondering. The delight I have in seeing the moment when your flighty little brain allows you to see the truth that was right in front of you this entire time, _and_ the plans I have for you.” She traced one of her fingers up his jaw and across his lower lip, and a wicked little giggle bubbled up from her. “Oh yes, I am _completely_ serious about my plans for _you_.”

“You’re insane,” Chrom said, as she strode back across the room to the table where she had been working before. He scoffed a laugh, half hysterical, even if he’d rather die than admit the mounting panic he felt strangling the air from his lungs once more. “Well, that’s a given.  But you’re—you said it yourself, Risen are borne from corpses.  So you’ll kill me after all, is that it?”

“Your tutors must have had _such_ a rough time with you,” Grima said, and Chrom would not give her the satisfaction of knowing how correct that statement was. “You aren’t very good at listening, are you?  I told you, I believe there’s a different way to do things—a _better_ way. Killing you would be a waste. Killing you would defeat the entire reason I’m doing this.”

“Which is?”

“She loved you, you know.” She took the mortar and began to walk around the perimeter of the room, sprinkling the powder within on the glyph engraved on the floor. “My vessel, the one who _used_ to be in charge of this body. Oh, she loved you. So, so much. It’s pretty revolting, actually. Nauseating, almost. _Love_ is in and of itself a pathetic human triviality, but love for a scion of _Naga_? There was a time, brief though it was, when I almost wondered if inhabiting this body would be impossible after all, despite her being bred for that specific purpose. It was only the banality of that idea, of _love_ making it impossible for me to possess her, that inspired me to press on and take her anyway. I’ll suffer through ten thousand lifetimes of tender memories before I let something as trite as _love_ stop me from claiming what is mine.”

“Why are you telling me this?” To drive the knife in deeper, probably, to remind Chrom that Robin _had_ loved him, but that _had_ was past-tense, that it had no bearing on the _now_ because if Grima paraded around, wearing Robin’s face and laughing through her lips, she was no more Robin than Lucina was the fabled hero Marth.

“Because even if I find her affections for you to be quite loathsome, I have to admit that they’ve still had an . . . effect on me.” Grima completed the circuit and placed the mortar back onto the table, and she looked back at her open book as she spoke. “An effect beyond the obvious surge of bile, of course. I still have her memories, you know. To some extent I still have _her_. Oh yes, she’s still in here, though most days she’s a good little girl, nice and quiet . . .” Grima picked up a dagger from the table, and ran one finger along the dull edge of the blade before she looked back at him. Slowly, she started to saunter to him, and despite whatever tendrils of hope had awoken at his chest of the idea of Robin still being in there—of Robin being _conscious,_ being _alive_ , being _able to fight_ —Chrom found himself struck with a sudden urge to flee. “But all the same,” Grima continued, “she _has_ had an effect on me, at least when it comes to _you_. It’s not to say that I _love_ you, of course—such a thought is still as hilarious as it is sickening, I assure you—but it is to say that her lingering feelings of devotion and affection have given me certain . . .” Grima reached out with the hand not holding the dagger, and gently stroked Chrom’s cheek with the back of her fingers. Chrom couldn’t prevent the shudder of revulsion that wracked through him at her touch. Grima smiled. “ _Cravings_.”

The air in Chrom’s lungs was shallow, and his head felt light—dizzy. He knew what she was saying—could place the pieces together despite all her digs at his intelligence—but so reluctant was he to actually _believe_ it that was difficult for him to hold the truth in his mind for more than a minute. “So you’ll . . . change me, without killing me, so that I . . . stay as I am?”

“More or less.” Grima continued to stroke his cheek— _petting_ him—and when Chrom pulled his head away to try and stop her, she sat on his lap and straddled him.  Their faces were only a few inches apart now, and she returned to her previous gesture of petting him, only this time it was to brush his bangs up and away from his face, her fingers laced through his hair. “As I said, creating Risen the normal way strips them of all individuality. Oh sure, they are useful soldiers, competent slaves . . . but insofar as personalized playthings, they’re virtually _useless._ No, love, I don’t want an _ordinary_ Risen for my purposes, I want _you_. I crave _you_. Only, as you are now, you’re just as useless to me as a common Risen would be. That divine, Exalted essence you have aside, you have that pesky little aspect of free will that would no doubt make you resist me at every turn.” Grima smiled, and tapped his lips with one finger. “Don’t get me wrong, a certain amount of resistance is tantalizing. But after a while it would get tiresome, and would cause me far more trouble than it would be worth. After all, I know well enough to know that I could never truly _break_ you, not in the normal way. No . . . it is best to circumvent that nasty little problem wholesale. There is no point in planning _around_ a spanner, as they say. It is best to remove it from the works altogether. And who knows?  If things go well tonight, I may not even stop with you. Perhaps, should things continue to go my way—and trust me, darling, they always do—I can work things into the schedule to bring our lovely daughter into our newfound family, too.”

“No!” Chrom still didn’t want to believe her—didn’t even want to entertain the idea that he could have his will stripped from him, that he could be reduced to the soulless, mindless beasts he and the other Shepherds had been slaying in a war that felt it had spanned decades—but that was an idea that, as horrifying as it was, he could accept as an inevitability for himself given his present circumstances. But the idea of that happening to his daughter, the idea of that happening to _Lucina_ , was . . . was . . . “Forget it. Do whatever you want to me, I don’t care, but leave her alone. Don’t you _dare_ touch her!”

“Or what?” Far from being afraid, Grima laughed, and spun the dagger in her hand so she could run the flat edge along Chrom’s cheek. “You’ll hurt me? Kill me? I am not sure if you’ve realized it yet, but you’re not in a position to do either of those things, and I can assure you that your situation won’t change at all between now and when the ritual is complete. Believe me, I wouldn’t have wasted so much time _talking_ if there was even a sliver of a chance that rescuers could come to find you.”

“I already said I don’t care,” Chrom said. “Just leave Lucina alone. She’s done _nothing_ to you.”

“But she will, if given half the chance. One way or another, she will have to be dealt with in due time. If I turn her into a Risen, however, as I am going to do to you, then her life can at least be spared . . .” Grima paused, then shrugged. “In a manner of speaking, of course. It’ll be close enough either way. A happy little family, all together. Well, almost.  We would have you, and Lucina, and all that would be left is Morgan.  Should we adopt him into the fold, we’ll have a full set. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”

_Lovely_ was the opposite of the word Chrom wanted to use. The idea of being turned into a Risen himself turned his stomach, but the idea of the same fate befalling his children—his Lucina, his _Morgan_ —was so horrifying that the words died stillborn on his tongue.  So he said nothing, and in his silence Grima smiled, and in one sudden motion flicked the dagger so that the blade sliced across Chrom’s cheek, and a few drops of blood splattered onto the floor. He hissed an oath, and Grima raised her eyebrows with an appreciative nod.

“I am sure that Naga would not appreciate that vulgarity to Her name, but I must say that I found it to be quite tasteful,” she said. She stroked her fingers along the cut on Chrom’s cheek, and when she had enough blood smeared across her skin, removed herself from his lap to begin smearing it at certain points along the glyph.  Chrom was no magic user, but he knew enough to know the importance of blood in certain dark rituals. Time spent around Henry and Tharja had at least taught him that much.

“Look, just—stop. You don’t have to do this. You don’t even—you’re a _Fell Dragon_ , aren’t you? Isn’t _destruction_ supposed to be your game, instead of torture?” She offered him no answer, and Chrom once again yanked on the chains binding him, though they were as resolute as ever and gave not an inch. “You don’t even know if it’ll actually work.  It’d make more sense for you to kill me outright.”

“Your tone says what your words do not, and oh, the sound of your begging is _delicious_ to my ears,” she said, and Chrom set his jaw, trying to summon more defiance to drown his rising terror.  “Hm, but what is it you humans go on about sometimes—something about grief? If I recall, the stages are denial, anger . . . and I suppose _this_ would be bargaining . . . ever the hasty one, aren’t you, Chrom? You’re cycling right through them.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Chrom snapped. “Just release me and fight me outright. I don’t need the others—I can take you on myself.”

“Without Falchion?” Grima asked, mirth in her voice. “You would barely last a minute. Again, though, that would be counter-productive to my purposes. I don’t want you _dead_ , Chrom—at least, not like _that_.”

“Just let me go,” he said, as dark red light started to spread along the glyph, pouring out from the blood she’d spread at the cardinal points. He couldn’t help the note of pleading in his voice despite her mockery. “Kill me, but don’t—”

“Chrom. Darling. Love. It’s too late for that. It’s been too late ever since you decided to take in a stray you found grieving over her freshly slain mother out of the goodness of your heart.” Once again, Grima straddled his chest, but with her dagger returned to its place on the table, she was free to use both of her hands to stroke his cheeks, the cut on his face stinging every time her fingers brushed across it. “You’re mine now,” she said. “You’ve been mine ever since you took _her_ with you.” She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, quick and light, but no less possessive. “Think of this as merely a way to make it official. For me to leave my mark, so that there can be no mistake about to whom you belong.”

“I belong to no one,” he said, and her smile was pitying.

“It’s so sweet how you think that,” she said. She glanced down at the glyph, and he followed her gaze; it was almost completely alight now, the dark red color oozing around the webbed markings, very nearly connected. She stared at it a moment more before she looked back at him, and held his gaze for only a second before she leaned forward.

“By the way,” she whispered, and he could feel her breath along the shell of his ear, “this is going to hurt.”

It was the only warning Chrom had before the chamber erupted with the sound of his own screams.

\- - -

Lucina was too late.

She should have gone by air, she knew—should have had Gerome take her to the top of the tower, where she could have broken in through one of the high, vaulted windows. Perhaps then she could have made it in sooner, perhaps then she could have saved him as she had planned—but she hadn’t. Instead she had opted to go by way of the courtyard, to slink along the shadows with Severa, Owain, and Inigo providing ground cover, Gerome and Cynthia in the air.  This way was stealthier, safer.  It would be easier to get in and out without being spotted, to rescue her father and cut through the meager Risen forces that had been stationed as sentries along the way to Grima’s lair. This way was slower, but smarter. Her father would commend her for being safe when she rescued him, would praise her for being smart.

He would have commended her, she knew. He would have been proud had she been successful.

At first, Lucina wasn’t sure what she was seeing. As she crouched in the hidden passageway that led to Grima’s throne room, she spied the Fell Dragon sitting upon the raised throne, addressing the Grimleal kneeling before it. That much made sense to Lucina, even as she tried to shift her position to see beneath the hood that Grima kept perpetually pulled up to obscure her features. But more important than the identity of Grima’s vessel was the person that stood beside the throne. The firelight in the audience hall was sparse, but Lucina would still see him standing there, could make out enough features to recognize him, even as she felt vomit slowly building in her throat.

It was her father. Her father was standing there, calm and gazing upon the Grimleal with an expression devoid of emotion, but that was . . . _he_ was . . .

Grima said something. Lucina could not make out the words, but she could hear something akin to anger or disgust in Grima’s tone. Grima reached up and brushed long fingers along Chrom’s arm, and with a slow, smooth, deliberate movement, Chrom unsheathed the sword at his side.

The Grimleal barely had time to move. Chrom cleared the small steps leading up to the throne in two graceful steps, and it only took one swing of his sword to cause the flesh of their throats to burst. The Grimleal fell, choking on their own blood and ruined necks, to the floor, and though Grima started laughing, Lucina shoved a fist in her mouth to keep from sobbing, though the sudden tears in her eyes had little to do with the dead Plegians on the floor of the throne room.

When her father had slain them, his expression hadn’t changed. There was no flicker of emotion there, no recognition for the lives he had taken. Worse, though, was what his closer proximity had allowed her to see. Her father’s complexion, once nicely browned due to time spent training or napping in the sun, was now pallid, a shade away from resembling a corpse on a mortuary slab. His eyes, once bright and betraying every thought and feeling that crossed his mind, were now blank and devoid of life, the only light to them belonging to an unearthly fire that told of a will that was not his own. And on his cheek was a wound, a jagged cut with others spiking out from it, and though it was messy and blood still leaked down his ashen skin, Lucina could tell from her spot in the passage that it would scar his face with the mark of Grima.

He looked over in her direction, and that was all it took. Lucina turned and scrambled back down the path, caring little for how much noise her boots made scraping along the stone, or the thuds that echoed down the passage when Falchion’s scabbard hit along the sides. Fortunately, if any of the Risen or Plegian inhabitants of the fortress heard her, they were unable to reach the passage in time; she emerged back into the courtyard in a full sprint, and didn’t stop running until she had cleared the outer walls and the shadows of Minerva and Cynthia’s pegasus swooped around her.

“Well?” Severa was the first to speak, emerging from a cluster of deadened trees with Owain and Inigo on either side of her. Gerome and Cynthia landed immediately after, their large, winged mounts sheltering Lucina and the others from view.  “How does it look in there?  Can we get in and get him?”

Lucina opened her mouth, but all that came out was a broken croak before she closed it again and shook her head. Severa frowned. “What do you mean, no?  What, are there too many guards?  Do we need to go overhead?”

“There are never too many guards for the harbingers of justice!” Owain cried, and Severa punched his shoulder as both Inigo and Gerome hissed at him to be quiet. “The might and will of our illustrious lineages shall guide the way, and our blades shall ensure us victory in this fetid night!”

“The only thing that will be assured is our collective _funeral_ if you don’t _shut up_ and keep your voice down,” Severa hissed, and Owain frowned.

“Do you doubt our prowess that much? Do you doubt that we could cut down any knaves that dare to engage us?”

“Yes,” Gerome said bluntly, and Owain’s frown deepened as Cynthia leaned forward on her pegasus.

“Well, standing around here talking about it isn’t going to get us anywhere,” she said. “I say we get this show on the road and move forward with whatever battle plan we’ve got!”

“Something tells me it won’t be that easy,” Inigo said, and before anyone could reply he reached forward to swipe a finger along Lucina’s cheek. On reflex, Lucina batted his hand away, but her action was wasted; he’d already pulled his hand back of his own accord, and the smile he gave her lacked any mirth or happiness.  “I take it these aren’t tears of happiness, are they?”

Lucina was suddenly aware of tears streaming down her cheeks, and as she looked at the others, she could tell that they had realized it, too. Neither Owain nor Cynthia were smiling anymore; Severa was staring at her with an expression of mingled disbelief, anger, and despair; and the slump in Gerome’s shoulders told her that he had finally lost what was left of his hope. Lucina reached up to wipe the remainder of her tears off her cheeks, and took a deep, shuddering breath to try and get her breathing under control.

“He’s dead,” she said finally. “Grima—Grima killed him. My father is dead.” No surprise rippled through the group, but she’d said the words primarily for her own benefit anyway. Her father’s body was alive, he wasn’t dead in the traditional sense . . . but he was, more or less, and she needed to accept that. Needed to accept it and move on.

“Well, that’s game,” Severa said, and she raised her sword in the air as if to throw it before she let it fall limply to her side. “Might as well hand ourselves over now and get it over with.”

“How can you say that?” Cynthia demanded, and Severa glared at her. “Yeah, His Grace might be dead, but we’re not—we’re still alive!  We can still fight!”

“With what?” Severa demanded. “What the hell have we got that the friggin’ Exalt of Ylisse didn’t have? If Grima got him, Grima can easily get the rest of us. Face it, you delusional little loser: we’re _dead._ ”

“The only loser here is you, since you’re giving up without a fight!” Cynthia snapped.  

Owain nodded, and swung his sword through the air in an exaggerated flourish. “Indeed!  For as long as our prestigious blood flows through our veins, and as long as our hearts continue to pound to mighty beat of justice’s drum, there is always hope of prevailing against the scourge and demons that pursue us!”

“There is no sense in continuing to fight a battle that has already been lost,” Gerome said. “I have no desire to _let_ them feast upon my bones, but nor do I have a desire to continue to needlessly put Minerva in danger.  We’re out.”

As Cynthia and Owain stared at Gerome with expressions of outrage and shock, Inigo looked over at Lucina. “What about you, princess?” he asked. “Where do you stand in this conflict?”

As one, the others turned to her, and it occurred to Lucina then—as it should have occurred to her when she’d retrieved Falchion from the battlefield after her father had been taken, as it should have occurred to her back in the passageway when she realized that he would never lead Ylisse again, that he would never be _her father_ again—that she was now next in line for the throne. Ylisse was her halidom, now, these were _her_ people, and it was her job to lead them.

She wasn’t prepared for it.  As a little girl she’d had lessons, she had been taught Ylisse’s history, had been taught certain customs . . . but the war against the Grimleal had started not long after, and after a time her lessons were focused on combat and survival, rather than etiquette and prestige.  But all the same, this was her choice to make, and she could remember the stories, remember the lore . . .

“Gerome and Severa are correct,” she said slowly. “Grima has won here, and there is no sense in denying it. We could continue to fight, and we should, as Shepherds, but we have no hope of victory here.”

Cynthia and Owain’s expressions were nothing short of betrayed, and Severa and Gerome looked no happier to be validated.  

“Lucina,” Cynthia began, “how could—?”

“But that doesn’t mean,” Lucina continued, “that we cannot win _at all._ ”

“What the hell is _that_ supposed to mean?”  Severa demanded.  “Mind speaking a language the rest of us can understand?”

“There are stories,” Lucina said, and even as she spoke the words she could feel a small kernel of hope building in her chest, her mind rapidly supplying the memories in an effort to bolster it, “that have been passed down through the Exalted lineage for generations. If one who can harness the true power of Falchion wills it, he or she can call upon Naga.  And in desperate, dire times, Naga can allow the chosen one and his or her companions to travel through time to right various wrongs.”

“So you’re saying that, even if we cannot win the battle here . . .” Inigo said slowly, and Lucina nodded.

“If we travel back in time, we may be able to win it before it starts. We can stop Grima’s resurrection, save my father . . . save _all_ of our parents from the fate that befell them. We can save the world.”

“All based around a fairy tale,” Gerome said, and Severa made a skeptical sound in her throat as she tossed one of her errant pigtails over her shoulder.

“A fairy tale is the best hope we’ve got at the moment, it seems,” Inigo pointed out.

“There are no such things as fairy tales when it comes to the noble powers that have been bestowed upon us,” Owain said. “Both Lucina and I bear the Brand of the Exalt. That brand alone marks us both as worthy of harnessing Naga’s divine power, of claiming our birthright!”

“At the very least, I do have and am capable of wielding Falchion,” Lucina said, and Owain looked a bit deflated at her refusal to join in his passionate speech. “That is enough of a start, at least for now.  Given how dire our circumstances are, I don’t think we’re in a position to be choosy over what leads we have.”

“Well, if that’s what we’ve got to save the day, then count me in!”  Cynthia said, and she reached across her pegasus’s head to give Owain a high-five.

Severa huffed an agitated sigh. “Fine, whatever. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do, anyway. Gods.”

“I’ll go wherever you choose to lead us, milady,” Inigo said, and he inclined his head toward Lucina in a small bow. Lucina looked to Gerome, who was stroking Minerva’s head with more gentleness than she usually saw from him. He seemed to sense that they were watching him, for finally he said:

“I’ll aid you so long as Minerva isn’t put in unnecessary danger.”

Lucina nodded. “You have my gratitude. For now, let’s head back to the barracks. We’ll need to tell the others about . . . about Father, and about our current plan.”

Her small group offered their murmured consent, and Lucina climbed onto Minerva’s back with Gerome and Severa while Inigo and Owain hopped onto Cynthia’s pegasus.  The flight back to the barracks was made in silence, yet although Lucina felt the tug of building sobs in her chest, she swallowed them down.

She could save her tears for another day.  For now, there was hope.  For now, there was still the possibility that the world could be won, that her father (and her mother, and her baby brother) could be saved.

For now, they had to fight.


End file.
